A n o t h e r ’s P l a c e
Marc Joan
It is cool under the banyans, and quiet, except for the sounds of a bird in
the branches—feathers brushing rich, dark leaves with the dry rustle of a
silk fan unfolding.

There is a part of India, near Mysore, where the
Kaveri river helps feed the impossible lushness of
paddy fields. Indeed, where the green of the paddy is dominant, and where the imported car has yet
to compete with the bullock cart and the bare foot.
Take the train to a certain rural station in this blessed
region. From there, engage your chosen mode of
transport. Ask for the old house, from the time of
the Raj. Everybody knows it, even today. It is haunted; the Englishman’s children died, and he left. Certainly the building is drenched in expatriate melancholy; perhaps bereavements are more bitter when
they are borne in a foreign land. Yes, the house has
a story to tell, but I have another. There is no beginning or end to it, as such. It’s not that kind of story.
That day I walked from the house to that reach
of the river where the banyans half-hide a clutch
of temples, still white in spite of time’s monsoons.
Discarded and forlorn, like broken shells in an abandoned nest, they are home only to spiders, obese and
drugged by plenty. It is cool under the banyans, and
quiet, except for the sounds of a bird in the branches—feathers brushing rich, dark leaves with the dry
rustle of a silk fan unfolding. Here, at the sand-silted
shore, the river is slow-moving and silent. One of
the temple buildings is planted close to the bank.
From it, steps lead to the water’s edge—no—they
lead into the water. I stand and peer at them; stairs
descending to dark green depths. Why? Has the river
encroached upon them over time? If not, then why
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build steps under water; and how? And why were the
temples deserted?
I try to photograph the descent. The steps are so
white; they draw the eye down where the pale stone
fades into a green world. I can see occasional movements, sometimes quick glimmers, as of a fish’s belly. Sometimes a slow, dark shadow, moving closer, as
though curious but cautious, always on the edge of
sight. Then I feel it. You will have felt it too, at one
time or another: the sensation of being watched. I
turn and see her. Standing a few feet away, soaking
wet, immodest by Indian standards, she seems unconcerned that her sari clings to her body. She regards me, unsmiling, hostile. Her eyes seem almost
inhuman: flat and devoid of expression. My smile
goes unanswered. The message is clear: This is not
your place. You are not welcome. You must leave.
Cowed, with a muttered apology, averting my eyes,
I start to retrace my steps, back to the house. I walk
for only a few minutes before realizing that my camera case is too light. Cursing, I turn around again.
I make my passage noisy, beating the lantana aside
with a stick, so as not to alarm her with a sudden
return. There are the steps, white, empty except for
a black Canon; and pristine, except for the wet footprints leading down, down into the water. Yes, leading into, but not out of, the unpeopled river; disappearing, evaporating before my eyes, in the heat of
the Mysore sun.